


Death of an Old Huntsman

by JackTheBard



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTheBard/pseuds/JackTheBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old huntsman goes out on a mission, and he prays it will be his last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of an Old Huntsman

He’s an old warrior.

Bellyful of hot lead, iron lungs, brass knuckles, and a heart like a diamond, he stands tall.

Fifty years, he’s been in this business. But he never bows, never breaks, untold legend because he still walks and hasn’t had the time to fade away into the aether. The people revere him. They call him the herald of victory, the unstoppable knight, a saint, a hero.

He never was fond of the title.

He’s just a man doing his job.

The job today requires that he goes to a place miles outside of the walls, armor and armament at hand as he moves to help the people. Hair the color of spun gold has turned into shining silver, a bare face now sports a mustache so thick it almost hides his lips, eyes sporting color of sapphires touched to flame. There is so much fire in his eyes, yet those that see beyond see only the dull remorse he has been carrying for almost three quarters of his life.

Most can’t see it.

He does his job well.

First donned is the shirt, white linen clashing with blue jeans, covering up the mass of scars that crisscross his chest and the back as smooth as could be. He has never run from a fight, never turned his back on an enemy long enough for one of them to strike him, so there is no single scar from the base of his neck to the small of his back.

The front is another story.

Three long gashes from an Ursa, twin marks on his belly from a Boarbatusk’s horns, a pair of triangles on his collarbone from when a Griffin pierced him with its beak, a pair of massive puncture wounds on his left side from when a Tajitu almost bit him in two. He survived them all.

It is his greatest shame.

Next comes the chainmail, long shirt of interlocking rings that covers his torso, a little down past his waist to cover some of the more tender bits. He has no need for them anymore. He has no children, he never will. Seven sisters sustain his family’s bloodline, he is not the last male to carry the name. All that he needs to keep alive is the weapons that were passed down to him from his grandfather’s grandfather, a remnant of the Grimm War.

The plate covers his chest and back, leaving the arms bare. A sword belt is strapped across his hips, the blade of his family locked into the belt on the left side. He’s right handed, and the cross draw is as fluid to him as a wave is to water. Stimulus provides, the body acts.

He drags a hand across his jawline, across the stubble, then thinks against it. The man doesn’t care one way or the other, only focusing on the work at hand.

Village in danger.

Evacuation needed.

He’s the only huntsman available, only huntsman that can the do the job right.

He prays it’s the last one he’ll have to do.

It’s not a matter of fatalism on his part, but a sense of duty that has come to an end. The better part of him died before he turned two decades of age, but he still trucked along. The age has only grown more cold and efficient in its absence. He heads out.

Three days pass before he gets to the village. The head man of the village would explain the situation as best as he can, and it’s the same as always.

Grimm.

Evacuation.

Buying time.

That’s all he’s good for these days: Buying time. Yet he has nothing he can spend; his time is almost up. What he has left, he gives to the people, jaded as that may sound. He’s old, they are young, and he turned old half a century ago.

Before the head man is done speaking, he draws his blade, readies his shield. They’re relics of a war long past, yet he still carries their name in order to perform his own battle.

Stand to.

Ready the battlements.

Even as he rides out on the massive ornithopter that the allied kingdoms use to carry their troops to and from battle, he thinks back to the days of yore, when he stood alongside legends, and finds himself saddened at their memory. It’s the same every time.

The lady in the red riding hood met her fate in the same fashion as her mother, the same fashion he went to face now. She fell valiantly, just as he prayed he would.

The Valkyrie, goddess of war, died surrounded by Grimm, her voice raised in a cry of valiant effort. She scared the rest of the enemy away with the force of the thundering sound of her death cry. No one knows how many of her enemy died in that final assault, but some estimate it in the thousands.

The ninja was pinned down, pinned by enemies too clever for their own good, foes that saw through his stealth. His skill with blade, gun, and aura were nothing when confronted with unfavorable ground and ambush.

The knight misses them all.

There is one that sits ill with him more than any other.

Memory is a horrid mistress. Yet, when you're an old man, Memory is all you have at times.

Touchdown, and the village head rushes to meet him, as expected.

He reiterates the mission to the aged huntsman, to which the huntsman nods in understanding, though in hopes that the man will end quickly enough for him to do his job properly. Each moment wasted is a moment that could be spent on securing the perimeter, instructing the marksmen, preparing the soldiers. People forget that he is a general just based on his title of “Huntsman”.

He should have been a better general in his younger days.

The warrior gathers the younger warriors of the town, instructs them to barricade all entrances save for the main. He will stand there. The others are to potshot and snipe foes as best as they are able; the town has no shortage of rifles.

They abide his orders.

They always do.

He instructs them to leave as soon as the last civilian evacuates, yet he has stood outside the main gates for an hour and more before the cavalry comes in to pull him out. He’s not ungrateful. He just wishes to die as he deserves.

He couldn’t save the one that mattered so many years ago, and that’s preyed on him. No matter the innocents he saves, no matter the Grimm he slays, he will always be lesser to the huntress that pushed him away before marching on her final mission.

He admires her.

He loved her.

He still loves her. Hence the lack of children from his own seed.

The young folk of the village barricade all other entrances as per his instruction, fortify the battlements, grab what rifles they have, and make ready. The huntsman summons the ‘thopters, hoping that they’ll get here sooner for the people and later for him. The Grimm come as if summoned by a brass horn of old, and the knight stands at the entrance to the town, the oaken doors closed and locked behind him. It is time.

The blade of his family flashes and decapitates, pierces, slashes the enemy effortlessly. The shield of his family does not buckle under the duress of blow after blow. Though he is almost seventy, he moves with the spry agility and stout strength of his twenties; an age borne of fury and disgrace of his own inadequacy. He still feels the sting of the failure.

Beowolf: Decapitated

Ursa: Bisected

Griffon: one wing removed, sword thrust into eye once it hit the ground.

He is a one man army. Armor absorbs the few blows that slip through his dauntless defense, and his thoughts only focus on the enemy in front of him, the talons and jaws of those that would seek to destroy him and those that would reside behind otherwise safe walls. His aura draws them close. What Grimm could resist destroying such fine prey?

The first evac leaves. Two more to go. He still fights, effortless in his actions. The sniper fire from the ramparts of the village wall certainly helps. He spins, ducks under a wide swipe from a rather old Ursa, decapitates it, then moves on to the next. His sword and shield move in perfect time, and he becomes lost in the rhythm of the battle.

It reminds him of the one he lost.

She was so fluid, so flawless, so… magnetic in her personality. She needed no assistance in standing against an army like the one the huntsman faced, but here he was, needing suppressing and supplementary fire in order to assist his point. He lets out a cry of rage as he drives his blade up underneath the jaw of a King Tajitu and sends a Boarbatusk flying with a single bash of his shield.

The potshots start to slow just before the second rescue ships leave, and he knows that some abandoned the ramparts. He keeps his aura up as a beacon of meat, a bastion of safety. It all depends on which side you stand on. His roars of defiance and duress come more frequently, now. He cares not about the enemy in the way, only the goal. The goal being the safety of the people. He may seek death, but the job comes first.

The job is paramount.

Shield bashes work in time with kicks, slashes, punches, thrusts, and pulses of aura. He’s a juggernaut, a pillar of strength that cannot be broken. But it can be cracked.

A particularly ancient Boarbatusk rushes in, stampeding through his allies and drives its horns up into the huntsman’s abdomen. The shield moves to block, but doesn’t come in time. It buckles the breastplate, cracks a few rings of the chainmail before the sword drives into the skull and uses its hold to fling it into the foes. The knight contemplates removing the breastplate, since it’s pressing rather painfully against the lowest ribs, but he has a job to do. Comfort is not tantamount here.

The huntsman’s blade flickers like it was the baton in the hand of a skilled conductor, and decapitates two of the Grimm more experienced than the Boarbatusk that had so rudely rammed into him. He stands nevertheless, pain only a minor distraction, and blows his mustache out with a sharp breath, flecks of sweat cascading away from his lips as he does so. The huntsman stands at the ready and awaits the next wave.

It’s only as the third set of ‘thopters set down when they start crashing in on him. The fight is harder this time. He uses his aura to supplement his self-healing as he carves through any that would press in on him. Logic would not dictate that he should last much longer, but he will.

He must.

The huntsman’s blade makes wide slashes rather than the quick flickers, now. Though they are slower and more tired, the Grimm only focus on how many of them he cuts down, but do not dare approach. He holds them in landlock, paralyzed in interest and fear by the sight of him stopping their fellows so effortlessly.

The third set of ‘thopters take off. A moment later, the final foe steps in and stands powerful before the huntsman. An Ursa, much like the first Grimm that the huntsman slayed on his own.

Unlike the first Ursa he fought, this one is centuries old, more white armor than black fur, and loomed over him at more than twice his height. The huntsman felt no fear.

He feels excitement.

This was the battle he had been looking for. Most Grimm that reached this point chose the path of the powerful, lumbering Goliath instead of the impulsive lesser races, yet this one chose to improve its strengths and combat those that would fall to its claws.

It was a general.

It was like the huntsman.

The Ursa makes the first move, and the sword cuts into its forearm, through the thick fur to carve into the flesh underneath, and a nest of black spores poured out. The rest of the Grimm backs away from the pair, since this is a match worth watching, worth learning from. The general commands it, so they refuse to interfere.

The old huntsman, unyielding, ducks and dives, using his blade to inflict minor pains on the Grimm. It is a death of a thousand papercuts, and his shield will do him no good. It is all about focusing on the right areas. A lucky strike sees him severing the hamstring of one leg, another has the Achilles tendon severed, snapping up the enemy calf.

He lingers after that strike, waiting for the thundering crash of the Grimm.

It comes, as expected.

So does the Grimm’s hand, meaty paw wrapping around his ribcage and crushing him, several of his ribs snapping in an instant, a cough of blood escaping his lips before he realized the situation.

The fourth group of ‘thopters flies out, carrying away the defenders of the town.

Good.

The huntsman had done his job.

He let out a roar of defiance, his breath carrying aura all of its own, just before he drove the blade of his sword into the skull of the Ursa general.

It fell, released him, and he let out a cough of blood once again. He stared up at the group of Grimm surrounding him, staring him down and fidgeting. His hips and ribs were crushed. A number of internal organs were crushed. He has maybe five minutes to live.

He shortened that to five seconds.

The huntsman coughs, forces himself to his feet despite his crushed pelvis, seventy years of determination coming to a head in that one moment. He thrusts his sword into the ground beside him and slowly lifts his shield arm out in front of him in a single accusatory gesture. He points ahead, his blood-stained lips curling into a defiant sneer as he says only one word, his entire life’s aura forcing out with the word.

“Die.”

Survivors from that village, flying out on the fourth evacuation flight, say that they saw a forceful ripple of white energy cascading out from the front gate, eradicating all Grimm in its wake, yet leaving the ‘thopters unharmed when that globe of energy washed over them.

Yet none can deny the sight that the huntsman team that came afterwards saw.

Two days after the evacuation of the village, a group of four huntsman (juniors, skilled in their own right), open the front gate and saw a single figure with its back turned to them, leaning on a sword implanted in the ground.

He died standing up. He died smiling.

The junior huntsmen place him on a makeshift stretcher, composed of a door frame and a shower curtain, and carry the corpse back to the ‘thopter they arrived on.

The undertakers attending the body remarked that, even after he died, there was not a single injury on his back. The huntsman never knew the meaning of “run away”. It didn’t feel right to him. His few friends speak at his funeral, many weep as the pallbearers lower him into the ground.  
His family’s armaments are buried with him. Nobody could possibly do them proud after the legacy he carried.

He is buried with his family, generation upon generation of huntsman and huntress, yet he receives the most praise for years to come.

The huntsman opens his eyes.

He’s lying on his back, blades of grass tickling the back of his neck, a warm sun shining overhead. His vision begins to clear.

A woman stands over him, bent at the waist, her red hair shimmering slightly in the sunlight, green eyes shining in happiness. She extends a gloved hand to him and says only this:

“It’s good to see you, Jaune. The others have been waiting.”


End file.
